The first two days of the Lozenge's half term were respite in some ways. We rolled out of bed a little later and spent the time getting ready for the dwarfs' week in Jordan on their own with the Glammy. The Lozenge had a school friend over for a few hours. He's half French and half Danish and thought that St Grace was the Lozenge's Grandmother. St Grace and I looked at each other when we heard him say: 'Your Grandma says....' and St G laughed so hard I thought she was going to be sick. She's four years younger than me. But many years wiser, I'm sure.
The Lozenge spent the days indulging in his favourite pass times: cooking and packing. By the end of the first day there was a neat line of 'wolling thootcases' by the door. And a freshly baked banana cake - the Glammy's favourite. St Grace nipped to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre before we left. After about 2 hours she called and said: 'Madam, I'm locked inside the church. There's a security problem and they won't let us out.' She returned safely in a thunderstorm soon after. There have been some welcome rainstorms recently, filling the air with the pungent hot smell of relieved earth and swarms of flies, mosquitoes and other bugs celebrating the damp.
The Lozenge was so excited about his adventure he asked tentatively: 'Mummy will you be thtaying Jordan too or will we be on our own?' I said I'd be leaving them there, which I knew was the answer he wanted to hear. But he politely said: 'Oh good. But we will miss you and we will pick you lots of appleth from the tree.' I wasn't sure what that meant, since the Glammy could not live in a more urban setting, but I was grateful for the thought.
At the first border checkpoint an Israeli soldier who looked about 16 years old, peeped in the window swiping flies and fat raindrops away from his face. 'Where are you guys from?' he asked in a familiar sounding accent. It turned out he was called Mark, an Irish/Israeli, raised in Newcastle, and had come to try his luck in Israel which meant the obligatory military service first and foremost. His Dad left the family when Mark was tiny, and is somewhere in Israel, but he didn't know where. He admitted, though he was loving the experience, the thing he missed most was Cadbury's chocolate.
The raindrops caused chaos for the crossing, one of the gates jammed and we had to wait, sandwiched between huge tour buses while someone fixed it. The first little cabin you reach on the Jordanian side was a frenzy of flies and frustrated drivers and border police, checking piles of papers and writing names and number plates on a table dotted with mouldering coffee cups. When we reached the main building, one of the policemen, Rakan who we see each time, waved and greeted us by our names with a warm hug. He's a Christian from Salt, near Amman, and keeps asking when we'll join him for lunch in his home. We were whistled through in no time and having dropped St Grace with her little bag to go and see her husband for the week, we were soon standing in the Glammy's familiar flat - the dwarfs rushed in as though it were their own - with her Mum, her sister and the fluffy cat, Cookie. Overjoyed to be reunited.
Then J and I wound our way back down the road towards the Dead Sea and the border crossing back to Israel: the dwarfs in the able and adoring arms of the Glammy, St Grace having a bit of a break with her husband. Jordan continues to offer a lot. Not just for our family, but for the region and even the world. The country, formerly famed for having, and being, nothing, has become the vital political and security lynch pin in a cradle of chaos.
We snuck through the border just before it closed for the Sabbath and found our friend Mark, still swatting flies and raindrops from his face outside the checkpoint cabin. We waved him over and as he stood up, I saw his gun was almost half his full height. Jordanian duty free has a good line in Cadbury's and we'd bought him a family sized bar on our way back through. I thought he might cry. 'No waaaaay! How do I return the favour to you?' And walked sheepishly back to his fellow cadets to resume his guard.
The Lozenge spent the days indulging in his favourite pass times: cooking and packing. By the end of the first day there was a neat line of 'wolling thootcases' by the door. And a freshly baked banana cake - the Glammy's favourite. St Grace nipped to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre before we left. After about 2 hours she called and said: 'Madam, I'm locked inside the church. There's a security problem and they won't let us out.' She returned safely in a thunderstorm soon after. There have been some welcome rainstorms recently, filling the air with the pungent hot smell of relieved earth and swarms of flies, mosquitoes and other bugs celebrating the damp.
The Lozenge was so excited about his adventure he asked tentatively: 'Mummy will you be thtaying Jordan too or will we be on our own?' I said I'd be leaving them there, which I knew was the answer he wanted to hear. But he politely said: 'Oh good. But we will miss you and we will pick you lots of appleth from the tree.' I wasn't sure what that meant, since the Glammy could not live in a more urban setting, but I was grateful for the thought.
At the first border checkpoint an Israeli soldier who looked about 16 years old, peeped in the window swiping flies and fat raindrops away from his face. 'Where are you guys from?' he asked in a familiar sounding accent. It turned out he was called Mark, an Irish/Israeli, raised in Newcastle, and had come to try his luck in Israel which meant the obligatory military service first and foremost. His Dad left the family when Mark was tiny, and is somewhere in Israel, but he didn't know where. He admitted, though he was loving the experience, the thing he missed most was Cadbury's chocolate.
The raindrops caused chaos for the crossing, one of the gates jammed and we had to wait, sandwiched between huge tour buses while someone fixed it. The first little cabin you reach on the Jordanian side was a frenzy of flies and frustrated drivers and border police, checking piles of papers and writing names and number plates on a table dotted with mouldering coffee cups. When we reached the main building, one of the policemen, Rakan who we see each time, waved and greeted us by our names with a warm hug. He's a Christian from Salt, near Amman, and keeps asking when we'll join him for lunch in his home. We were whistled through in no time and having dropped St Grace with her little bag to go and see her husband for the week, we were soon standing in the Glammy's familiar flat - the dwarfs rushed in as though it were their own - with her Mum, her sister and the fluffy cat, Cookie. Overjoyed to be reunited.
Then J and I wound our way back down the road towards the Dead Sea and the border crossing back to Israel: the dwarfs in the able and adoring arms of the Glammy, St Grace having a bit of a break with her husband. Jordan continues to offer a lot. Not just for our family, but for the region and even the world. The country, formerly famed for having, and being, nothing, has become the vital political and security lynch pin in a cradle of chaos.
We snuck through the border just before it closed for the Sabbath and found our friend Mark, still swatting flies and raindrops from his face outside the checkpoint cabin. We waved him over and as he stood up, I saw his gun was almost half his full height. Jordanian duty free has a good line in Cadbury's and we'd bought him a family sized bar on our way back through. I thought he might cry. 'No waaaaay! How do I return the favour to you?' And walked sheepishly back to his fellow cadets to resume his guard.
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